


Shelter of Last Resort

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Time, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-09
Updated: 2008-09-09
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8710174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Someone somewhere must have known that, eventually, Dean would do something to earn his condemnation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

  
Author's notes: Thanks once again to SylvanWitch for an awesome beta I then more or less nullified by re-writing portions of the story post-edit. Any mistakes are all on me.  


* * *

Title: Shelter of Last Resort

Author: jdax

Rating: NC -17

Spoilers: Season Three

Disclaimer: All this stuff belongs to other people. I own nothing. 

 

***

 

The overhead light hummed and flickered, casting an eerie glow on Dean’s skin as he stood hunched over the bathroom sink, naked, listening to the water run and wondering dimly how hard he might have to scrub to rid himself of _that_ feeling. 

 

The one that stirred in his belly every few minutes now, usually at the end of what seemed like a reasonable excuse for what he’d just done.

 

The one that reminded him that there _was_ no excuse for what he’d done.

 

Running a wet, trembling hand over his face, Dean sank to his knees next to the toilet and threw up, retching miserably in the knowledge that he’d finally crossed the line, hurt Sam in ways that could never be undone.

 

Dean closed his eyes when it was over, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

 

He hadn’t meant to at first, not really, but Sam…

 

_It felt good._

_So damn good._

_And Sam smiled for once._

_God damn it, why was there a sacrifice to be paid for_ everything?

 

Dean stood slowly, turning back to the sink where he filled his hands with water and splashed his face again, trying hard not to look down at the blood. 

 

His reasoning was bullshit, he knew, and as he slowly looked up into the mirror, he figured fucking Sam might have been part of the plan; someone somewhere must have known that, eventually, he’d do something to earn his condemnation. 

 

At least he wouldn’t have to live with his guilt very long.

 

***

 

They couldn’t blame it on alcohol or ignorance; neither one of them was particularly drunk or stupid.

 

Sam had gone silent a few days ago as plans, ideas for saving Dean’s life, began to dry up. Communication was hard and awkward; the banter Dean relied on to pull Sam out of his morbid funk was now all but useless. The youngest Winchester sat perfectly still mile after mile, his mouth set in a hard, angry line, his jaw twitching slightly from time to time as the only indication that he himself was still among the living. 

 

As night fell and darkness rushed toward them again, the only sound from Sam was a heavy sigh, maybe of defeat, as another day slipped through their fingers.

 

As they were checking into The Last Resort Motel, the middle-aged clerk behind the desk seemed to have taken the suggestion personally as she snapped a make-up compact open to apply more eye-shadow to an already overly made up face. Her hair, which was dyed an unpleasantly vivid shade of orange, was piled on top of her head and apparently secured in place by a random assortment of clips, barrettes, scrunchis or whatever the fuck women called those things.

 

As she was running the credit card through, long acrylic nails tapping rhythmically on the counter to some phantom song playing in her head, Dean took note of the too-tight leopard print tank top she wore, the neckline dipping dangerously low. Normally, a woman’s choice of clothing was a non-issue for him as it all ended up in a pile on the floor anyway, but her whole countenance spoke of desperation, something he wasn’t exactly looking for more of at the moment. He grinned and nodded politely, though, acknowledging her generosity when she leaned over the counter a bit too far to hand back the credit card. 

 

Sam stood silently, grimly, by the door, scanning the room, glancing out the window, noting the exits, trying to forget, it seemed, that there was no way out.

 

***

 

Dean wandered nervously around the room, making sure to give Sam a wide berth each time they passed each other. He wanted to say something to his little brother, get him to laugh or at least mutter something more than, “yes,” “no,” or “whatever.”

 

“Hey, you hungry?” Dean asked hopefully. Food was generally a pretty reliable fallback position when Sam was being a pain in the ass.

 

Sam unzipped his back pack, pulling out the lap top. “No.”

 

“You just gonna stay here all night jacking off to porn?” It was meant as a joke, as Sam should know by now, but the man who glanced back at Dean just then, fixing him with a hard look – a look, quite frankly, that nearly took Dean’s breath away – resembled his brother not at all. It made Dean suddenly feel very lonely.

 

“Sam,” Dean said quietly, stepping a little closer as the younger man sat down at the table and powered up the computer. “Come with me.”

 

Sam remained silent, but Dean thought he saw his brother pause, considering. “We could get drunk,” Dean continued, daring to come around and sit on the edge of the table, the slightest smile playing on the edge of his lips. “I’ll buy _and_ I won’t make fun of you when you hurl at the end of the night.” He thought he had him when Sam finally met his eyes.

 

Dean didn’t quite hear Sam at first because he was so stricken by the pallor that had come over the younger man’s face. His color was bad tonight, ashen, like civilians looked when they finally saw the ghost. His eyes, lately flat, dark, lifeless, flashed angrily as he raced toward the end of his sentence. 

 

“Maybe this is a joke to you, Dean, but I haven’t given up. There’s an answer out there and I’m gonna find it.”

 

_In a week? Not likely._ Dean didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. They’d had some variation on this discussion almost every day for the last, well, three hundred and fifty-eight days.

 

And counting.

 

“You need to eat, at least. You look like hell.” Dean regretted the quip instantly. He longed for the days when things like that were still funny, but maybe they never really had been. 

 

Sam visibly stiffened, then snapped his attention back to the computer screen dismissively. 

 

As Dean left, closing the door behind him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he and Sam had just turned a bad corner. He wasn’t sure what they were supposed to be doing with the time that remained -- too much to ignore, too little to change anything -- but falling into silence, shutting down, while understandable, wasn’t how Dean wanted to spend his last days. He wasn’t dead yet.

 

The reality of Dean’s fate had been stalking them for a year; now, it was closing in for the kill. Dean could feel it as surely as if the Hellhounds themselves were already breathing at his heels. Time was almost up. Dean swallowed hard as he slipped into the Impala. He’d seen a look on Sam lately he didn’t like, the look of the man he would be once his brother was gone, and no amount of pleading or arguing was gonna change that now. What was Dean supposed to say anyway? Have a nice life? You’ll be okay? Don’t worry about me? He couldn’t reasonably expect Sam to do any of those things when he’d be standing over his brother’s body by this time next week, alone in the world with the worst possible mementos.

 

In moments like this, when his confidence was taking a hit, Dean used to reassure himself with Sam’s presence, but tonight, the fact that they were together was no comfort at all. Instead, he reminded himself that Sam would live, and that was the whole point, wasn’t it? It didn’t matter how, did it? Dean shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to erase his last thought. It did matter, of course, but there was so little time and nothing left to say. 

 

Nothing he could do.

 

Suddenly, Dean pounded his fist once and hard against the steering wheel, setting off a shrill noise from the horn that drowned out his own angry cry. There was no victory in this. Dean saw now that he had condemned them both to one hell or another and there was nothing he could do to save either one of them. His heart ached with the truth of it even before every plan failed, again and again, crushing Sam’s hope under the weight of his guilt. 

 

Dean turned the key in the ignition, then glanced out the passenger-side window. He froze, wondering if Sam would ever sit next to him here again. That’s when it hit him.

 

And hit him hard. 

 

He never cried openly for what was happening to them, but in that moment, he finally saw that their life together was already beyond his grasp. Everything that used to be was gone or going, surrendering now to never again. 

 

***

 

An hour later, Dean paused outside room twelve – uncomfortably close to room thirteen, in his opinion, but men who make deals with demons can’t be choosers, or whatever. He took a moment to try on a few friendly facial expressions, settled on just handing Sam a can of beer from the six-pack under his arm, then opened the door.

 

The room was dark, the only illumination coming from the laptop, still open on the table, and the window where the curtains were drawn back just enough for pink and green light from the flashing vacancy sign to fall across the floor and Sam where the young hunter sat on the edge of the near bed, staring out into the night.

 

“Hey,” Dean said nervously, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Decided to bring the party to you, man.” He shrugged out of his jacket, popped open two beers, then sat down next to his brother. Sam took the beer and they drank in silence for a long time, their shoulders touching now and then. At first, Dean jumped at the unexpected contact, but when Sam kept right on drinking as if nothing had happened, he did, too. Before long, the occasional brush turned into deliberate pressing. Dean began to wonder if Sam had started drinking without him when the younger man suddenly dropped the empty can on the floor, leaned forward, and covered his face with his hands.

 

“Sam?” Dean turned, skimming his left hand awkwardly over his brother’s back, finally settling on his shoulder. “Sam, answer me, will ya?” 

 

Dean was aware now that Sam was shaking, almost imperceptibly, as he struggled to hold back what must have been a grief so monumental as to be an entirely new emotion. Only one other person could relate.

 

Without remembering how he got there, Dean found himself on his knees in front of Sam, whispering appeals as he gently pushed his brother’s hands away from his face. He wanted to see his eyes. Needed to. Sam let him in, spreading his legs, letting him come closer, but didn’t look at him, didn’t speak. The position was too intimate and should have been setting off all kinds of alarms for Dean, but what he cared about right then was drawing Sam out of himself; for all he knew, it was his last chance. 

 

“Please,” Dean begged. “Answer me! Say something!” 

 

Sam looked up slowly then, eyes red, raging with painful realization, expression contorted into an awful caricature of bitter acceptance. He’d finally realized that his brother, his best friend, his family, was going to Hell.

 

“Aw, Sammy,” he whispered as he gathered his brother’s shuddering body to him, cradling his head as he rocked them both. Not knowing what else to do, he just held on, pulling Sam closer, whispering his name, pressing his lips to his brother’s ear, his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, as they rocked back and forth, back and forth, to a mantra of sorrow and regret. 

 

They stayed like that for awhile, mourning, and Dean tried to ignore the unfortunate memories of Jake that haunted the moment now and then. He clutched Sam harder.

 

Suddenly he heard Sam’s voice, muffled against his neck, say, “I wish you hadn’t brought me back.” A deafening silence followed, mostly because Dean knew all along he shouldn’t have. It was a selfish choice meant to save him from being alone.

 

The hypocrisy was sickening.

 

And persistent, as he’d realize later.

 

By way of an apology, Dean drew back, intent on giving Sam the explanation or opportunity for recrimination he knew his little brother deserved. 

 

“You wanna hit me?” Dean offered, pointing to his chin. “I guess I’ve got that comin’.”

 

Sam’s jaw tightened. 

 

“What do you want me to do, Sam?” Dean bit his lip, glancing away before he could fix his brother with a more determined look. “I just…I couldn’t --”

 

“Live without me?” Sam spat bitterly, grabbing each of Dean’s biceps in a powerful, bruising grip and shaking him. 

 

Dean swallowed hard around his answer. “Yeah.”

 

Sam continued digging his fingers into Dean’s arms, torn, obviously, between pulling him close and shoving him away, his eyes wet with unshed tears.

 

Adrenaline was pumping hard as Dean moved in, pressing himself into the space between his brother’s legs, whispering fiercely against his ear, “You’re my family. I love you.”

 

Sam gasped, drawing in a shuddering breath, and suddenly he was the one bearing down on Dean’s face and neck with ghostly touches of lips and fingers, with words that made no difference now. 

 

Dean was soon caught up in it again and his cheeks felt hot when he realized he was digging his fingers into Sam’s thighs. His stomach jumped when a strangled moan escaped his brother’s lips.

 

“Hey,” Dean whispered brokenly, pulling away. 

 

Sam didn’t let him go far. Instead, he reached down with a hunter’s reflexes and covered Dean’s hand with his own, holding it hostage against his leg, then guiding it, unbelievably, up and across until Dean found his fingers brushing against Sam’s fly, against a hardness that shocked his senses into being. 

 

Dean could tell by the caustic amalgamation of utter defeat and determination in Sam’s eyes that his little brother wasn’t asking.

 

There was a moment of silence, of stillness, as they bade farewell to the last vestiges of what was about to become their former incarnation.

 

Dean grunted as he popped the button on his brother’s jeans with one hand, his own with the other. Then, the soft, unmistakable sound of a zipper could be heard as he released Sam’s straining member. The youngest Winchester leaned back on his elbows, the pained look on his face softened a little, Dean imagined, by the feel of a warm, calloused hand wrapping around his hard, aching shaft. The thought brought his own cock to attention, but he kept his eyes and hands on his brother. 

 

It felt awkward, rough at first, and Dean spit into his palm to ease the way. The sudden slickness was rewarded with a grateful moan as Sam pressed himself into Dean’s grip. The older man set to bringing his brother off by alternately sliding his fingers over the pulsing shaft - the long curve of it conforming perfectly now to his hand - twisting his wrist slightly at the bottom, and slicking his thumb over the head, all the while trying to ignore his own need to be touched. He’d take care of that later, if Sam would sleep tonight; all he cared about now was bringing him a few moments of blissful oblivion.

 

Dean set up a steady, determined rhythm, used all his best tricks and even tried a few new things as Sam thrust hard into his hand, groaning with pleasure, then frustration. The bed squeaked under his hips as Dean jerked him off like a pro, but for long moments release was denied to him. Sam shifted, slid his jeans and underwear over his hips and kicked them away, pulled back like he was gonna finish himself off, when Dean pressed a hand to his chest, pushing him back down onto the bed. He licked his lips, sank down between muscular, welcoming thighs, pressed the flat of his tongue to Sam’s leaking cock, then hesitated, captured it in his mouth, sucking softly, inch by inch, until it seemed as though he was eating his brother alive.

 

“Aw, Christ!” Sam twisted his trembling fingers in Dean’s shirt as he met his mouth with small, slow, agonized thrusts calculated not to gag. He was holding back.

 

_Can’t have that._

 

Dean dipped a finger, still moist, into the crevice between Sam’s legs, pressing gently against the tight ring of muscle as he continued to engulf him in soft, wet heat. 

 

Sam jumped at the unexpected intrusion, then relaxed, spreading his legs, tilting his pelvis higher, an invitation for more. 

 

Dean slowly, carefully, worked him open amid curses of pain and pleasure, between cries of, “Aw, fuck” and “Right there,” stopping now and then, sucking Sam’s cock deeply when he could tell he was hurting. After a few moments and a couple of false starts, Dean had two fingers buried deep inside his brother, drawing from him that dark, primordial language of lust as he brushed against the secret place he’d been searching for. 

 

Sam’s eyes slid closed and he threw his head back; a savage, angry beast under Dean’s sole command.

 

Always a quick study when it came to pleasure, Dean decided to join in as he reached down with his free hand and started jerking himself off in an extraordinary feat of coordination, balance, and manual dexterity. His hand was moist, sweaty, as he wrapped it around himself and stroked, too hard at first, dragging painfully along his hot, aching flesh. He sucked Sam’s cock wetly, hungrily, listening with a perversion of pride as the youngest Winchester’s reverent curses collapsed into an unintelligible web of grunts and moans. Dean suddenly felt two hands on his head, gripping, pushing, forcing him to open wider, to suck deeper. A groan escaped Dean's throat as Sam held him down, filled his mouth, fucked it like his life depended on it. Dean’s hand slipped easily over his own shaft then, slicked and stroked it with a need, with want more powerful than any demon he could imagine.

 

For a long time, they communicated like that, trying to guide their pain into pleasure, wandering the wasteland of it as each tried to drive the other toward oblivion.

 

Finally, they realized this wasn’t the way.

 

Sam suddenly fisted Dean’s t-shirt, hauling him up onto the bed. He yanked his own shirt off, then reached for Dean’s, ridding them both, for the moment, of anything that could keep them apart. Soon, they were naked, completely exposed to each other, and Sam laid back, spread his legs again and guided Dean closer.

 

Suddenly, everything he was thinking, feeling, seemed to speed up and blur in a maelstrom of lust, obligation, regret and forgiveness as Sam gripped his hips and pulled him down hard. Dean felt raw, sensitive, vulnerable, even, as Sam took control, grinding demandingly against him.

 

_Too much._

_Too far._

 

Dean knew he should stop, knew it was too late. Almost against his will, he ground down on Sam’s cock, felt it pulsing, or maybe that was his. Hard to tell. Didn’t care. Just wanted to feel this, hear his brother moan, feel his nails digging into his hips, his back, as they drove against each other. Sam’s face was wet with tears and without even thinking, Dean leaned down, touching his lips gently to his brother’s cheek, tasting him. 

 

The unexpected intimacy startled the younger man, apparently, as he turned his head, focusing on Dean as if he’s just noticed he was there. 

 

“Dean,” Sam whispered in the dark.

 

The older man didn’t think he’d be able to answer to that without shattering into a million pieces. Sam already sounded so far away.

 

“I’ve got you, man,” he managed, running a hand through Sam’s damp hair.

 

“Dean,” Sam said again, drawing his knees up and pressing them gently but insistently into Dean’s sides.

 

He knew what Sam was asking.

 

He just didn’t know if Sam knew what he was asking.

 

Sitting back, Dean looked down at his brother with more love than he realized he could feel. It must have shown on his face, even in the near-darkness, for he could have sworn he saw the slightest of smiles at the corners of Sam’s mouth, sad though it was. Any arguments he might have made against what his brother wanted dissolved as Sam spit into his own hand and reached between Dean’s legs, seizing him in a firm, steady, determined grip.

 

Soon, Dean found himself pushing up to Sam, _into_ him, so slowly he thought they might not actually ever touch again. Dean’s eyes slipped closed as he inched forward, finally, finally, _finally_ , sinking into that heat. When he stopped to give Sam time to adjust, to change his mind, his brother ground out, “Come on!” through clenched teeth as he pulled him deeper inside. Dean could feel himself throbbing, straining against all that tight velvet, could feel Sam opening, alternately squeezing and releasing around him as Dean bit his lip, trying not to thrust yet. 

 

Not yet.

 

Because neither one of them was ready for it to be over.

 

Once Dean was buried inside his brother as far as he could physically go, he leaned down, watching Sam’s face for any signs of pain. He bracketed Sam’s head with those strong hands, the ones that had held him, comforted him, instructed him and saved him throughout his life. 

 

Much as they were doing now. 

 

Sam ran one of his own hands up and down Dean’s arm, feeling the muscles cording as they began rocking back and forth once more. 

 

It had begun to rain, the drops gathering, tapping, against the window like countless offended voyeurs.

 

Dean lay down fully on top of Sam, pressing against him, into him, as he felt his brother relax, loosen a little. Dean thrust, breathing hard against his neck, falling into the rhythm of the rain as it picked up speed and strength around them. Sam ran his hands over his brother’s back, then clutched painfully at his biceps, releasing a ferocious howl as Dean skillfully rolled his hips, striking that sweet spot over and over again.

 

Their bodies fit together like they were meant for this, bonded by their pleasure now as they had always been by pain. The room filled with the smell of it, of sex and sweat, as they fucked, slow and deep, to the soundtrack of a world trying to wash itself clean of all the evil it was already drowning in.

 

Dean’s hands found themselves tangling in Sam’s hair, gripping, groaning his brother’s name as they finally and together reached their terminal velocity, held each other suspended in an aching moment of ecstasy, then fell.

 

After, their skin was hot, slick with sweat and come, and Sam winced as Dean reluctantly pulled out. It was all the older man could do not to apologize - that, he knew, would set a dangerous precedent. 

 

Sam lay there quietly, resting a forearm over his eyes. Dean reached for his own shirt, which had landed on the foot of the bed, and gently, silently, cleaned first his brother, then himself. As he worked the fabric over too-sensitive skin, he started thinking about what they’d just done. What he’d just done to them. He tried to concentrate on Sam’s breathing, which was slowing into sleep – a rare mercy these days - but as the shirt came away from Dean’s body with a dark stain he knew to be blood, he rolled off the bed and stumbled toward the bathroom, the euphoria suddenly gone. Shaking with horror as reality coldly seized him once again, he swore he could hear maniacal laughter haunting him from Hell itself.

 

***

 

Sam watched intently, waiting, but not moving from the driver’s seat of the Impala until she appeared. 

 

He slammed the door.

 

She smiled and shook her head when she saw him, unmoved by the hard, cold bloodlust in his eyes.

 

“You Winchesters,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “Just can’t take no for an answer.” She stepped closer, running a hand over his chest, through his hair, which had grown past his shoulders in the months since he’s started coming here to bargain for Dean’s soul. “Normally, I like that, but this is starting to get pathetic.”

 

“I want my brother.”

 

She rolled her eyes, sighing heavily. “We’ve been through this, Sam. You don’t have anything we want.”

 

Sam stepped forward. “You still have a war to put on, don’t you?”

 

“Yes, we do, but we have our leader in Lilith now. We don’t need you.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Yes!” 

 

Sam reached out and stroked the demon’s cheek with a steady, confident hand. She moaned at the touch. “Then again…” she whispered huskily.

 

“I was there,” Sam said softly, “when Lilith killed my brother. I was there.” He swiped his thumb over her lips. “I watched her tear him apart.” His heart was heavy with the memory of it, but he knew he was finally breaking her. He pressed on.

 

“Mmmmm…” she smiled, closing her eyes and snaked her tongue out to capture his thumb in her mouth. She sucked it hard.

 

“Have you ever known Lilith to leave survivors?” he whispered.

 

Her eyes opened slowly, meeting his, as realization dawned. She let go of his thumb.

 

“I have a proposition for you,” he continued. 

 

She stared at him for a moment with something like fear in her eyes.

 

“I’m listening,” she said slowly.

 

***

 

Dean’s eyes snapped open and he looked around wildly in the dark.

 

The pain had stopped.

 

The pain had stopped.

 

The pain had stopped.

 

When Sam found him, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, but not the one Dean remembered. This wasn’t some cheap, anonymous motel. No, this place felt lived in.

 

For a very, very long time.

 

Maybe _lived_ was the wrong word.

 

“Dean!”

 

Sam rounded the bed, grabbing his brother by the shoulders and gathering him up into a hard hug. 

 

After what seemed like an eternity – time had pretty much lost all meaning for Dean – Sam drew away, but he didn’t let go.

 

“Where are we?” Dean asked slowly.

 

“My place.” Sam smiled, “ _Our_ place,” he amended.

 

Dean frowned. That told him exactly nothing.

 

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to ignore the screaming that still echoed in his head. He stood carefully and fell backwards. Sam reached for him.

 

“Take it easy.”

 

“What _is_ this,” Dean asked, finally gaining his feet. “I feel really weird, man.”

 

“Just…give it time.”

 

“Give _what_ time?” Dean made his way over to what he presumed was the window, running his hand along a heavy, black curtain, pulled it back. 

 

“Dean, don’t!”

 

He wished he’d listened. Knew later, after a lot of arguing, that there were no more “Get Out of Jail for a Huge Personal Sacrifice” cards. 

 

As Dean looked out over the ruined landscape, desolate, black and dying, Sam came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He began explaining about the war, about how he had agreed to lead the other side to victory in exchange for Dean’s life. 

 

And to ensure there would be no going back, no treason on Sam’s part, both their souls were forfeit.

 

It was just as well, considering their kind had been all but annihilated, anyway.

 

Sam turned Dean to face him, his eyes flashing darkly as he tried to explain, reassure, that they could be together now. 

 

No more sacrifices.

 

No more deals.

 

No more death.

 

This was it.

 

This was their life.

 

Together.

 

Forever.

 

 

***


End file.
